watching_you | OOM: Suite 130

If she hadn't had a hand on his arm, she never would have felt the hesitation in his step. There is a significant pause before he answers. A vintage Chevy drives by, windows rolled down to appreciate the warm spring day and share the deep thumping bass with the entire street.

Mills watches as it rolls passed, and she feels him sigh, a modicum of tension fading. "On the contrary," he rumbles.

"Oh."

Veronica bites her lip, and for once, she can't think of anything to say.

But she does lean her head against his shoulder once again.

His elbow grips her hand tight against his side and he keeps his stride measured and easy, not at all in a hurry to get where they're going.

He can't help but feel as if he's gone back through the wrong Door and ended up in someone else's life. Her presence here with him seemed more improbable than anything else Milliways had thrown at him. And the events of the afternoon might be a fantastic dream, one that he'd wake up from any moment.

But no. He could feel the warmth of her cheek through his jacket.

After another block, they take a turn down a little side street lined with trees and brightly coloured bougainville. He guides her to a typical Mediterranean style apartment complex, nothing spectacular. Through an iron gate and passed a central courtyard with the obligatory swimming pool.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Kazerian." He waves to an older woman sitting in a lounge chair. She waves back and then tips the brim of her huge straw hat up and pulls down her shades to give Veronica a long hard look. Mills, for his part, keeps right on walking.

Sensing she's being watched, Veronica glances over, and gives the woman a wink. If she's going to gossip, might as well make it interesting.

They're not quite out of earshot when Veronica speaks. "So this is your place, is it? Can't wait to see."

"Not much to see," he says, fishing his key ring out of his pocket (just a simple ring, house key, car key, and a few others, nondescript, possibly for a padlock on a storage locker or a gun safe). "I've only been here for a little over a year."

The interior is spartan. Tan carpets, tan couch, a bookshelf, an entertainment center, and a large black reclining chair. A simple breakfast table in the kitchen holds a few newspapers and a stack of mail. There's a door to what she assumes is a bedroom at the far end of the living room.

She moves away from him as they enter, one arm folded across her chest, the other tapping a thoughtful finger against her lips. Her eyes sweep over everything, taking in little details, filing away a mental catalogue of the room.

"It's nice."

She turns back towards him. "Did you want to eat here?"

"We could, or we could go back to your place. Your call."

He's setting the produce down in the kitchen before stepping back out and pacing through the space, his eyes checking the sliding glass door as he moves passed into the bedroom. That checked, he returns.

"I don't tend to spend a lot of time here. It's more a place to sleep when I'm not travelling."

Smoothly, "Well, if we stay here it does give me time to rifle through your things."

One hand's still near her mouth, and she bites her thumb teasingly.

"But hey. Whatever."

His eyes draw down to slits as he regards her. The thumb thing, really. Shouldn't being working as well as it is, he thinks. A languid smile ghosts over his lips.

Comfortable in his own space, he moves back into the kitchen.

"And it would give you time to ask impertinent questions. Beer?"

"I object. My questions are entirely pertinent."

She wanders over, leans her hip against the counter.

Skeptical, "You're going to start drinking again?"

Mills takes off his jacket, draping it over a kitchen chair, and slips his holster off, dropping it on the table.

"Good point," he mutters. He looks back into the fridge, frowning. "I guess you need your wits about you. For the interrogation."

"I have diet soda, on the off chance that Kim ever stops by. I have bottled water." Looking back up at her again.

"Water would be great, actually."

She marvels at the fact that he removed his gun without her even mentioning it. Interesting.

"Do you see your daughter often? Oh, that's --" She puts her hand over her mouth, looking sheepish. "Interrogating. Sorry."

He chuckles, reaching in the fridge and getting a bottle of water for her. "I'll let you know when you're out of bounds, all right? I see her as often as I can, actually. She's seventeen, so that's not as often as I'd like."

He leans on the bar, looking at her for a moment, and then shifts away, circling around the end of the counter. "Can I hang your coat up for you?"

"Mm, thank you, yes." She shrugs out of the red trenchcoat and hands it over, then leans back against the counter.

Seventeen seems young -- he must have become a father relatively late in life. She would have expected his daughter to be...

Well, to be a little closer to her own age. Um.

Veronica shoves that awkward train of thought right off the rails.

"What's she like?" she asks, uncapping the water.

Mills hangs her coat in the front closet and returns to the kitchen, all business. Cutting board, colander, greens into the sink for a rinse, some ingredients out of the pantry, olive oil, balsamic vinegar.

And her question brings him up short.

He leans on the counter, his expression pained. "I -- don't really know. I missed most of her childhood, and I've been playing catch up."

Veronica winces.

"Wow. From zero to foot in mouth in two questions flat."

She crosses the space, hesitant, and presses a hand on his back between his shoulderblades.

"I'm sorry. For asking. And for..."

She doesn't say it. She doesn't need to.

"It's all right," he turns his head, his body leaning towards her touch.

He gives her a little half-smile, looking into her face.

"What's done is done. The only way forward is through."

She mirrors his expression. Then, without moving away, she peers around him at the food.

"So. How can I help?"

Mills stands and turns, his hand resting briefly on her hip as he points. "Why don't you set the table? It's the perfect excuse for you to go through the cabinets and drawers."

"Sure. Which drawer holds your credit card statements and complete medical history? I mean forks."

She tries a couple, eventually saying, "Never mind. Found them."

The silver is downright utilitarian, probably purchased at a restaurant supply or a thrift store, judging by the mismatches. He does have a drawer with cloth napkins though, faded and worn as they are.

"You think I keep my records here?" He gives her a little smirk, retrieving a knife from the magnetic strip on the wall. He gives it a little twirl before attacking the cheese. "I've already gotten too comfortable here as it is."

As she clears the table, she can see the mailing address is for a post box.

The mail's not exactly thrilling, either, mostly junk, or misdirected notes intended for someone else. There is one package from the zoo, which makes her smile.

As she clears space, "You're used to moving around a lot, I gather?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

He takes a couple of plates down from the cabinet and begins arranging the mozzarella and tomatoes on the plate. She might recognise a caprese salad taking shape.

"Isn't it the same way for you? Always on assignment?"

A short laugh.

"I suppose it will be. I'm still pretty new to this whole thing." Whether by coincidence or otherwise, her back is to him as she arranges plates and utensils. "But I don't really have anything to tie me to one place these days."

He steps behind her, gently placing a hand in the small of her back as he leans around to put the plate down. She fits entirely within the shadow of his body, and when he speaks, his gravelled voice is close to her ear.

"What about the bar? You looked pretty settled there."

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